The Purple Shirt
by vcumonkey123
Summary: Just a quick one-shot about Sherlock's shirt.


There was something to be said about his purple shirt.

He knew he could always get his way with a smile, if he pushed matters, but wearing the purple shirt (which he did when he needed a particularly delicate sample), preferably undone a few buttons at the top (which was needed on cases warranting a nine or a ten [he very rarely found tens anymore; people were getting so dull]), made things so much simpler (and less time consuming, which was something always needed [people were so _boring_ when they wasted his time {and most people did, with such trivial matters as sentiment and caring and hospitality}]).

Today was such a day. The case Lestrade had brought to him was increasing in rank, starting out to be a four (he had refused to even discuss it with the detective inspector, but John had _insisted_ [his outbursts at Mary, John's _fiancé_, had become increasingly waspish {but could John really blame him, since he had just come back from the dead to find John moving on with someone of equal intelligence to the doctor? (Was it really his fault Mary was decent?)} and John was eager for Sherlock to have _something _to do]), but had now turned out to be a ten (a five-patch problem, something John had been alarmed with [claims of nicotine overdose and other such nonsense]). Sherlock knew that Molly would be eager to help, but only so far. Ever since his death, she had grown a backbone. Perhaps it had been that he had asked her for help (which was the obvious choice, as she did not have an assassin trained on her), or perhaps it had been the numerous times he had hidden in her flat (atrocious carpeting, incessantly annoying cat that constantly kept underfoot [he would never admit to enjoying its company]), or the many times she had stitched him up (her needlework left a lot to be desired [but she had claimed it was much easier sewing something that couldn't complain] and she only ever used the burgundy thread [she claimed that is all she had in her box, but he remembers seeing the black, but never commented on it]). Whatever the reason, she had become increasingly unhelpful with his cases. It was true that with any _official_ police business she was more than accommodating; the bodies needed were always catalogued properly (and her deductions were always correct [he admired her skill in finding things even he had trouble seeing {this, of course, he would never admit to anyone}]), she was always available during her shift to help with samples (though she never came in anymore when it wasn't her shift [no matter how many times he might text her]), and she was usually willing to part with evidence that she knew would be pertinent elsewhere (even Molly realized how incompetent Lestrade's officers were).

But now she declined his request to borrow equipment to take home (she claimed he never returned her things). She also refused to give him body parts to study, and she hardly ever allowed him to cajole her into staying later than she needed (she firmly believed the new pathologist was just as capable as she, and told Sherlock that if he wanted to use the lab he would just have to work with someone else every once in a while [the new pathologist was an inept and hopeless fool who only worked with dead people because all of the doctors at St. Bartholomew's were afraid he would kill a live patient {he also had an internet porn addiction which bordered on the obscene, and Sherlock would rather jump off a roof (again) before subjecting himself to that sort of torture (the smell of the man!)}]). There were limited instances that Sherlock was able to convince Molly to stay a few hours later, but he had always been wearing his purple shirt. He had noted during these times how her eyes had flickered at the sliver of skin peeking from the topmost button, and had used that to his advantage, unbuttoning the second when she had her back turned.

Today, he wore the purple shirt, and to sweeten the deal, fixed a plum scarf around his neck. He swaggered into the hospital's morgue, ensuring his top two buttons were securely unfastened, and noticed Molly packing away her last body of the day (female, thirty-five, died of drug overdose [Citalopram, depression, not accidental {husband having an affair with younger woman, obvious}]). She was wearing one of her hideous jumpers (lavender, inspirational quote about following dreams [given to her by her mother as a birthday present {last minute gift, two birthdays ago}]) and her hair was swept up to the side in the style he found appealing. He watched as she closed the refrigerator on the woman, as she carefully peeled off her purple latex gloves, as she diligently wrote her report. She knew he was there, but did not say anything, just waited for him to say what he came to say.

She knew what he wanted. He always wore the purple shirt whenever he needed (wanted [expected]) something from her. Her eyes briefly glanced over him. Four or five patch problem, it seemed (she could tell by the strain in his eyes, in the lines that creased his forehead), and most likely about that case Greg had brought her (serial killer, five victims so far, no discerning pattern in deaths). She understood the importance of the case, but she didn't understand why Sherlock was being so difficult with Dr. Mulruney; he was a perfectly competent pathologist who understood the needs of Sherlock and bent over backwards to insure they were met.

Sighing, Molly went back to the paperwork on Patricia Harper and attempted to ignore Sherlock's presence.

He stood still for another two minutes and thirty-six seconds (an impressive feat, given his anxiety over this case) when he decided to take matters into his hands. He walked up behind her, and, clearing his throat, intoned, "Molly, I wish to ask you a favor."

She didn't look up. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I realize your shift is about to end, but I would like to have you for your assistance for the case the inspector has given me."

"No, Sherlock." Her pen continued scratching (violet ink [she really was an eccentric character]). "Dave will be here, so you'll have to ask him."

He huffed and moved closer still to her. "The hideous excuse for a new pathologist? I need someone who knows what they are doing, who sees the things I see, not some bumbling idiot who rambles on about what book he is reading. I need _you_, Molly."

He allowed a moment for those words to take effect, then placed his hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently. She stopped writing, and her voice was strained as she said, "You are being entirely unfair, Sherlock. Dave does the best that he can with what he is given, and you certainly do not make it easier for him." She shrugged off his touch (he noted how unusual this was) and moves away, grabbing her bag (magenta [hideous color {no doubt from her color-blind brother}]) and moving toward the door.

He hated this, this feeling of inadequacy. He followed her from the morgue, keeping a stream of compliments and pleads. On the stairs of the hospital she finally turned to glare at him. Behind her, the sun was setting, lilac sky quickly changing from mulberry to violet. "I said no, Sherlock, and that means no. I'm not staying later because you hate someone. I'm not giving up my evening because you don't know how to work alongside someone that isn't me. I can't keep doing that for you."

She began to start walking away again, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm and his words in her ear. "I don't know how to work alongside people; this is true. I don't trust others with my work. It frustrates me when they get things that are so _obvious _wrong. I don't _hate_ others; it is simply that I know they will never catch as much as me, nor will they observe as much as you. You find things that I didn't even know existed. That is why I _need_ you for this case. It is a dire situation and I have no intention of upsetting you or ruining your evening. I know, however, that I will not be able to do this without you."

The sincerity in his voice threw her. She squinted at him, unsure (not surprising; while he did not mention _sentiment_, he was still implying that he needed Molly for more than just a pathologist [he needed her to _observe_ and deduce and see what others did not {he needed _her_}]). He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his coat tighter around him, hiding the purple shirt he knew got whatever he wanted, and waited impatiently for her to say _something_. She finally ended his torment, sighing heavily, but with a genuine smile, and said, "Alright, Sherlock. Lead the way."

Relieved, he turned quickly and walked inside, unable to see the smirk that crossed her face (had he done, he would have swiftly deduced she was tricking him [not for malicious purposes, but just to see where she stood with him]).

Really, Molly just loved watching him squirm in his purple shirt as a dull flush spread over his skin. She would always be there for him, whatever he needed (but she would never admit it).


End file.
